Killing the Number
by Kimmychu
Summary: A Prison Alternate Universe where Danny Messer must become a convict of Sing Sing penitentiary for a secret mission … and meets a man who changes and challenges everything he’s ever believed about himself. Danny/Flack.


**Killing the Number**

*********************

Fandom: CSI:NY

Author: Kimmychu

Rating: FRAO

Pairing: Danny/Flack

Content Warning: It's a prison AU, which means, apart from character names and core personalities, things are vastly different from the canon universe. Loads of swearing. And violence. And sex. And more of both.

Spoilers: Because this is an AU, the spoilers are technically not quite spoilers for the show but I'll list the specific episodes out anyway. For this installment: episode 2x20 - Run Silent, Run Deep.

Summary: A Prison Alternate Universe where Danny Messer must become a convict of Sing Sing penitentiary for a secret mission … and meets a man who changes and challenges everything he's ever believed about himself. Danny/Flack.

Disclaimer: The characters belong to CBS. Their modified roles and histories, however, were created by me.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

Author's Notes: The title of this story comes from the prison slang 'killing your number', which means serving one's time or getting out on parole. This is a prison AU, which means that it's _very_ different from the canon universe. For one thing, Stella is the only female character from the show who'll appear in the story. All the characters' roles have been changed to suit this universe, but I did my best to maintain their core personalities. That's where the fun is, ya know?

I won't say anything more so as to not spoil the story. This will be the first of quite a few installments. Not sure as of writing this how many there will be, but you can bet there will be more! Thank you in advance for your reviews. I appreciate them.

P.S. There is a glossary of prison slang at the end of the installment.

**( Oooo …... oooO )**

Their blatant, murderous stares are boring holes into his face and body, Sassone's most of all.

"Well, well. If it isn't Danny Messer, dirty ex-cop and soon to be jail house _punk_."

Sassone isn't the flabby, indolent asshole Danny remembers from his adolescent past anymore. Whatever fat the former Tanglewood Boy head honcho ever had has been replaced by rock solid muscle. Thinning, greasy hair is long gone, shaved off to expose a round head smooth except for a recently healed, jagged scar that scrawls from behind and over Sassone's left ear to the outer tip of his left eyebrow. And those eyes, those hate-filled, reptile eyes are gleefully promising Danny nothing but suffering and torture for the duration of his incarceration in Sing Sing.

"Whatsamatter, Danny boy? Got nothing to say to your old pal Sonny?"

Danny keeps his mouth shut. He ignores Sassone's vile grin and doesn't take the bait, tempting as it is. He's been waiting for years for this once-in-a-billion chance to come face to face with the sonofabitch who killed his older brother - his _only_ brother - and of all the fucking luck, he can't exact the revenge befitting Sassone's sin. Not without blowing his cover and ruining the hard work Mac, his sergeant, had put into getting him inside the correctional facility.

He can't do that, even if it means letting Sassone talk shit to his face in the middle of the yard while other inmates are scrutinizing their every move.

"You got _nobody_ here, Danny boy. No mommy and daddy and _Louie_ to save you now. No cops to cover your dirty, snitching ass. You know what that means?"

Danny's hands clench into fists. He's not the same guy Sassone once knew either. Definitely not the stupid kid who tailed his brother like a pathetic dog seeking acceptance and respect from a bunch of low-life gangsters. How dumb he'd been then, how _dumb_ he'd been to think the Tanglewood Boys would make him one of their own and _love_ him.

It had cost him his brother. Twice over.

"It means you're _mine_. Mine to beat up, spit on, shit on and _fuck_ with any time I _want_."

It takes every ounce of willpower he has to turn his head aside and walk away. Less than two steps to the side and Sassone and his cronies, three of them, are hedging him in, trapping him in a six-foot wide circle of space.

If Sassone was alone, Danny could take him on and probably get away with his life. But throw three more guys into the mix, three stocky, mean-looking bastards ravenous for a kill?

He's screwed.

"_Ohh_, you're not going anywhere, Danny boy."

Danny is unable to stop his features from twisting into an expression of total revulsion as Sassone reaches out and winds short, thick fingers into his spiky, light brown hair. To know the same fingers had touched Louie, hurt him, perhaps even landed the very blows that split his skull and brain and sent him into a deep and ultimately fatal coma -

"I bet you suck dick good. Just like Louie."

Sassone's nose flattens to a bloody pulp beneath his hurtling fist. He doesn't feel the crunch of bone and cartilage against his fingers. He's watching the blood spray from Sassone's smashed face, hearing Sassone roar in pain, and Sassone's letting go of his hair and retaliating with a right hook and he lunges backwards only to hit the ground hard after he's kneed in the lower back, directly on his spine. It hurts like hell, like a burst of electricity frying the nerves of his back but he grits his teeth and kicks the closest pair of legs in the shins and knees. He's grinning viciously even as he's pinned down and more pain is exploding in his face and ribs and sides and arms and he's struggling with all he's got, one on four.

_Got you again, Sassone, you sick, homicidal, motherFUCKER -_

He finally cries out when a foot slams into the side of his head. He rolls onto his side, curling up, shielding his face and the back of his head with his hands. Bile climbs up his throat. His sight turns blurry and whirls like a horrific, nauseating carousel. Another kick, this time straight into his belly, and what's left of his breakfast surges out from his mouth.

"Look at the pathetic worm! Little shit can't even hold a meal down after one kick!"

Sassone's voice is distorted. Whether it's from the broken nose courtesy of his punch or from his head spinning round and round, Danny's in too much agony to figure out. Something warm and wet is running down from his nose, down over his lips and his chin. Everything below the hairline feels broken and battered. He breathes noisily through his mouth. Spits out red.

Sassone's standing next to his head now, drawing back his right foot, aiming it at his bruised face and -

"Yeah, Sassone, you're a _real_ man, a'right. Facin' the fish with _three_ guys doin' the work for ya."

Danny's slitted eyes open a fraction wider.

"What the fuck you want, Flack? You stay the _fuck_ outta this!"

"Back off, Sassone. This one's mine."

"You fucking _mick! _This has _nothing_ to do with you! He and I, we got unfinished _business_ to settle -"

"_Back off_, Sassone. I won't say it again."

Slowly, very slowly, Danny raises his aching head off the ground, his eyes squinting in the midday sunlight, searching for the man Sassone called Flack. Flack … who's Flack? He doesn't recall reading about any convict called Flack in the files.

"_Fuck you_, Flack. I claimed him first, he's _mine_ so fuck off!"

"Word is he used to be a cop. A _dime dropper_."

"So fucking _what?_"

"A snitchin' cop's the reason I'm here."

Flack's voice is low and calming, deceptively so. Woozy as he is, Danny still manages to detect in it the veiled undercurrent of … power. Fearless, unmitigated power.

Who _is_ this Flack?

"_So what? _I'm supposed to just _hand _the little fucker over to you, is that it?"

"Sure." A pause. Then, a soft albeit derisive snicker. "But I'd be more than happy to give the right side a' your head a makeover like I did the left, if that's what ya want."

Sassone is growling like a rabid dog.

"You fucking shithead mick, cutting in on my business like this, I shoulda _killed_ you then!"

The whole yard's spiraling and spiraling and Danny has to set his head back down on the coarse ground and close his eyes. White starbursts are blinding him behind his eyelids. The hot wetness under his nose covering his lips and chin is cooling and drying. His arms and legs have gone numb. Shit, one of his ribs might be fractured. Maybe two.

"I'm a nice guy. I'll let ya try again." There's the sound of feet shuffling. "I'll just stand here and let ya come at me, see? 'Course, if ya miss _this_ time, it's gonna look _real_ bad for ya, hm?"

Sassone's howl of rage deafens the world.

It's a split second decision for Danny to attempt getting up despite the objection from his aching body. He can't allow this Flack to vie with Sassone alone. This is _his_ fight, goddamnit, and he'd be _fucked_ if he permits either convict to _own_ him -

Somebody's arms are clamped around his heaving chest.

A clear whisper cuts through his stupor: "Don't move."

The arms are dragging him away from his own splatter of vomit, his puddle of blood on the ground, away from where Sassone and a tall, dark-haired man are brutally sparring and other inmates are hooting and cheering them on and he bites his lower lip hard to rein in a groan. Shit, _shit_, some of his ribs are fractured for sure.

"Sheldon, what do we do, _what do we do?_"

"Here, help me lay him down."

Danny can't keep his eyes open anymore, not for a second longer or he's going to spew his guts out all over the two men elevating him off the ground and onto something wooden and flat and that's not how he wants to thank his rescuers.

"You stay here with him, Adam, okay?"

"O-okay."

His head is resting on someone's lap. This someone is gently stroking the top of his head. Such kindness is the last thing he expects in a hellhole like Sing Sing, and he hesitantly peels open his eyes to see a young man with auburn, curly hair. The young man is staring into the distance, his rotund, childlike face grave from worry.

And for some reason, Danny is suddenly struck with the urge to comfort _him_ instead.

He must have twitched or made a sound because the young man glances down at him and tries to show him a reassuring smile.

"It … it's gonna be okay. Don and Sheldon will take care of us, you'll see."

His lips part, a reply hanging upon them, but just as the first word forms itself, vertigo and renewed pain strike him like a tsunami. His eyes pinch shut. His chest constricts in an excruciating paroxysm and a whimper escapes his gnashing teeth and then, he's falling, falling swift and unstoppable into a black abyss of nothingness.

**Oooo …... oooO **

Hawkes is a man who isn't fond of verbal swearing. He does so only during extenuating circumstances, even here in jail, and as he gazes at Flack who's fast approaching Sassone and his three flunkies, he surmises his dearly departed mother would forgive him for what he's mumbling under his breath.

"Fuck it, Don, what the hell are you _doing?_"

Adam's sitting beside him on the bench, wringing his hands over and over. Adam's nervous, and that means trouble of the violent, head-breaking, blood-spattering variety is brewing big time on the yard.

"They're going to fight, aren't they?"

Hawkes gives Adam's left shoulder a squeeze.

"Don can take care of himself."

"The last time, he-he almost _died_."

Hawkes squeezes Adam's shoulder a second time, though this time, it is much more for himself than the younger, auburn-haired man. Adam is right; Flack had narrowly escaped getting shived weeks ago by the very man he's confronting right now. The thing is, Flack wasn't the premeditated target of the shank. It had been another prisoner named Douvry who'd infuriated Sassone by simply being a fish in the wrong place at the wrong time. Flack had no obligations to help Douvry fend off Sassone, much less grapple with Sassone one-on-one and risk his neck but that's how Flack rolls.

Guy gets in trouble and there's Flack, knight in shining armor ready to save the damn day.

The image doesn't jive at all with Flack the killer, guilty of armed robbery and multiple homicides.

"Is he still alive?"

It's a no-brainer to know to whom Adam's referring; the newest fish on the block is sprawled on the ground, motionless. Hawkes' lips curve down in a frown at the vibrant blood flowing from the fish's nose and mouth. Geezus, Sassone's flunkies really did a number on the poor bastard.

"I don't know."

He quietly observes the tense scene unfolding in the distance: Sassone is shoving himself into Flack's personal space, getting all up in Flack's face and _this _close to unleashing a punch or ten. Flack's playing it cool, legs spread, shoulders lowered, head tilted to the side like the confident ace that he is. He wishes he could hear what Flack's saying to Sassone that is angering the scarred prisoner so much.

"Look, he moved his head!"

Hawkes shifts his gaze from Flack and Sassone to the fish. Sure enough, the beaten man has lifted his head somewhat, but it's bobbling and Hawkes, ex-doctor that he is, immediately recognizes it as the bad sign it is. Possible concussion. Or worse.

"You fucking shithead mick, cutting in on my business like this, I shoulda _killed_ you then!"

Oh shit, Sassone is _really_ pissed off.

"Sheldon … what do we do?"

Adam's hands are stiff against his stomach. He's terrified.

Flack has spread his legs even further apart. The tall man's gesturing at himself. A millisecond's all Hawkes requires to realize what Flack's just done, and he's leaping off the bench and sprinting towards his friend the same moment Sassone bellows to the heavens and attacks Flack.

Another millisecond and one glimpse of Flack's visage and he skids to a halt next to the fish still slumped on the ground. He has to give the injured guy his dues; it's unmistakable that the fish is straining to rise onto his forearms and hurl himself into the escalating altercation between Flack and Sassone. Without warning, he clinches his arms firmly around the flailing man's chest and hauls him away to safety, murmuring, "Don't move," into his ear.

He isn't sure if the fish hears it.

Adam is pacing to and fro like a madman, muttering something incomprehensible. However, true to form, Adam becomes silent and on the ball the instant he notices Hawkes and his semi-conscious load.

"Here, help me lay him down."

They place him on the bench, Adam sitting down on it once more and the new inmate's head on his lap. There's no time to check the extent of the fish's injuries.

Flack needs him.

"You stay here with him, Adam, okay?"

He doesn't hang around for Adam's answer. In the length of a single breath, he's dashing into the melee again, his right fist swooping down to clobber the flunky sneaking up behind Flack. His years of boxing are serving him well; the flunky, a blond rat called Caldwell, goes down like a ton of bricks from one clout to the jaw. Another flunky charges at him like a mad bull and he easily sidesteps and counters with an elbow jab to the back of the flunky's stout neck. He, too, drops like a rock, sand billowing up upon impact.

The third and last flunky, Russo, is wisely standing to one side, glaring at him and Flack but doing nothing else. Hawkes pays no heed to him. Russo's just a cell gangster and Hawkes ought to know; the coward stays six cells away from his, and while Russo doesn't think twice about yelling threats from the confines of his cell, outside he's meek as a mouse. A lily-livered mouse who harms others only when he's certain he won't be receiving anything he's dishing out.

"Alright, break it up! _Break it up!_"

Correctional Captain Vicaro's strident snarl is akin to a taser shock in the throat. Hawkes freezes at once, stooping in a submissive pose, his arms up in surrender. He's jostled to the ground anyhow, the furious, shouted orders of other correctional officers to stay the fuck _down_ ringing in his ears. He grimaces when his face is pushed into rough sand. He doesn't utter a word.

"BREAK IT _UP!_"

He hears ferocious thumps of steel batons on flesh. Stifled grunts of pain accompanied by the crunching of gravel beneath tough leather boots. Sassone's roaring and cursing and evidently not settling down without a fucking good fight. Hawkes has to give the former gangster some kudos as well; as volatile and insane as Sassone is, the man is an imposing adversary who really knows how to leave his marks on the fragile human body. And it doesn't matter jack who he hurts, prisoner or hack.

"You didn't get enough the last time, Sassone, hah, HAH?! You better fucking STAY down or I'll _chuck_ you into the fucking Hole again, _GOT THAT!_"

Somebody collapses onto the ground nearby.

"_Fuck_."

It's Flack.

Hawkes cranes his head to look at his friend. Flack is on his back, arms at his sides, staring up at the bright blue sky with equally bright blue eyes. There's blood trickling from the corner of Flack's lips. More blood speckles his grey prison outfit and white T-shirt underneath, but Hawkes doesn't spot any gaping wounds on Flack's broad chest. It's not Flack's blood. A bruise is darkening the lower half of Flack's left cheek. By tomorrow, it'll be blue black and Flack will be feeling it for at least a week.

And of all the damn facial expressions the man's wearing, it's a giant ear-to-ear grin.

Hawkes sighs.

"I hope the new guy's worth it," he says to Flack.

Flack simply chuckles, and Hawkes can't help but follow suit. Arrogant asshole. One of these days Flack's cockiness is going to earn him an express ticket to the morgue.

"_Flack!_"

Vicaro is stomping towards them, pockmarked face livid with fury, baton in a knuckle-white grip.

"Oh boy, here he comes …" Flack mumbles.

"I'm not _done_ with you yet, Flack!" Vicaro kicks him in the thigh, though not unkindly. Flack still flinches. "Didn't I tell you not to stir up shit? Didn't I tell you to stay the hell away from Sassone, _hah? _Ya want me to _bust_ your _onions_ or what?!"

Flack carefully flips onto his side, favoring his right shoulder, and sits up. He glowers at Vicaro.

"Sassone and his goons were beatin' the crap outta the fish. He'd be _dead_ if I didn't step in."

Vicaro snorts. The correctional captain is a daunting figure in his dark navy uniform and knee-high boots. Vicaro's gold badge, fastened to his shirt above the left breast pocket, glints in the sunshine. A tiny mirror image of Flack and Hawkes sitting on the ground is reflecting off Vicaro's silver sunglasses.

Here in Sing Sing, they are mere ants, and Vicaro is a god.

"Always the hero, eh, Flack?"

Vicaro is smacking his baton against his left palm.

Flack smirks. His pearly white teeth are slathered crimson.

"You should be thankin' me, boss. Ya know how much paperwork I just saved ya? What would you do without me savin' the fishies from certain death?"

"Don't smart mouth me." Vicaro accentuates his point with a harder smack of his baton against his palm. "Be glad I saw everything going down or you'll be joining Sassone in the fucking Hole."

Flack's eyes have narrowed.

"If ya saw everythin' goin' down, why'd you let 'em beat up the fish?"

Vicaro stares down at them for a second, then replies, "Snitching ex-cops get what they deserve. And you oughta know, Flack. You're stuck here with me thanks to one, aren't you?"

Vicaro's mirthless grin reminds Hawkes of a stripped skull.

Flack's eyes narrow even more.

"Sheldon! SHELDON!"

In a flash, Hawkes is on his feet, sight honed in on Adam at the bench. Adam's clutching onto the limp, unconscious and very pale new prisoner, his heavy-lidded, green eyes wide in dread.

"Sheldon! I think he's not _breathing!_"

For a while, just a while, Hawkes forgets where he is and who he is today. He's not Sheldon Hawkes, the veterano inmate guilty of vehicular manslaughter, but Dr. Hawkes, one of the top medical examiners in New York city.

And someone needs his help. _Now_.

"Where the hell do you think _you're_ going?"

Vicaro's baton is searing and rigid across his chest. A phallic guarantee of agony should he be idiotic enough to rub Vicaro the wrong way.

Hawkes stares the correctional captain in the eyes and grates out, "A man is seriously injured and requires care."

"Don't think you've gotten off easy, Hawkes." Vicaro's tone is gracious, and about as honest as a snake's. "I saw what you did to Sassone's lackeys. I'm keeping my eye on you. You and Flack."

Hawkes scowls and gives Vicaro the red eye. Vicaro, on the other hand, merely sneers and makes a show of prodding Hawkes' chest with his baton before stepping back. Hawkes also takes a few steps backwards, moving in Adam's direction, glowering at Vicaro out of contempt and frustration at being unable to even the score with the hack. Vicaro's had it in for Flack from the day Flack arrived in Sing Sing, shadowing Flack, watching Flack like a paranoid eagle from afar. Hawkes can't comprehend what the jerk's problem is with Flack. Yet.

When Vicaro starts to follow him, Hawkes swivels around and pointedly turns his back on the correctional captain. Fuck him. He tries to mess with Flack or, God forbid, Adam, and Hawkes will bust _his_ onions.

By the time he reaches Adam and the fish, Flack is already there, towering over them. Adam is sending him that deer-in-the-headlights look, the one that always pops up whenever bad shit is happening and the young man's losing it. He kneels in front of Adam, extending a hand over the unconscious fish to grasp one of Adam's upper arms. Its effect is instantaneous; the panic within Adam subsides as if a full sink is unplugged, whooshing down the drain. Adam relaxes under his touch.

"Let me feel his pulse, Adam," he says, and Adam loosens his clasp on the new inmate. The abdomen area of Adam's grey garb is saturated with blood, blood still oozing from the fish's inflamed nose and split upper lip.

He presses the tips of his fingers into the side of the fish's bare neck. Pulse is thready. He pulls up the eyelids to check pupil dilation. One eye's bigger than the other. Confirmation of a concussion. _Shit_. He doesn't bother wasting time examining the rest of the injured man.

"We have to move him to the infirmary now."

"I'll take him."

Hawkes gazes up at Flack, a diminutive smile arching his full lips. There he is again, Flack, the gallant knight in shining armor.

Upon seeing, _really_ seeing Flack's mien though, his smile wavers. Flack is stationary as a statue, his large eyes impossibly bigger as he stares downwards at the reclined new inmate in Adam's arms. The entire universe might as well not exist to Flack, the way Flack's zeroing in on the light brown-haired fish and nothing else.

In the one and a half years they've befriended each other, Hawkes has never seen Flack gazing at anyone that way.

"I'll take him," Flack reiterates louder. Then Flack is bending forwards, maneuvering his arms under the fish's upper back and knees and picking up the sorry-looking bastard without so much as a grumble. Something cold begins to grow in Hawkes' chest after he notices Flack tucking the knocked out man's head under his chin. Notices how tight Flack's hold is around the man, a fish who just joined their block this morning. A fish nobody even _knows_.

If what he suspects is true, Flack is playing a very dangerous game here.

"Flack, you are taking this hero shit too far," Vicaro gibes behind them, but Flack doesn't respond to the taunt and brushes past Vicaro as if the correctional captain isn't there. The iciness in Hawkes' chest expands at Vicaro's devious smirk.

Not good. Not good at all.

"Let's go!" Flack calls out.

For the first time, Flack isn't waiting for him or Adam to catch up, and the coldness inside him becomes an iceberg that roils in his belly and constricts his throat and triggers a muscle tic in his jaw. They stick together. No matter what. Nobody's above another.

And yet in one afternoon, thanks to a fish so fresh nobody knows his name, that has seemingly changed.

Hawkes stares at what he can see of the fish from his position behind Flack while they stride to the infirmary building; the lean legs, the spiky brown hair peeking over Flack's shoulder, one sinewy arm dangling and swinging with every brisk step Flack takes.

Who _is_ this new prisoner?

And more importantly … what does Flack _want_ with him?

**Oooo …... oooO **

There's a blanket swathing him from shoulders to feet. This much he's certain.

"I don't know about this, Taylor. He might be _too_ good for the job, if you get my meaning."

He's lying on a bed, that he's certain of as well. But his eyes are viewing a setting wholly different from the sensations his senses are conveying to him; he's in Mac's office, in their precinct in Manhattan, sitting in front of Mac's organized desk and trying his damnest to not be outwardly disconcerted by the presence of the Commissioner in the chair beside him.

"Messer has what it takes, Sinclair. I can personally vouch for him."

Mac's blinds are drawn and his door is shut. It's never shut unless something major is going down and Mac doesn't want other people to poke their noses in his business.

"I can do this. Just gimme a chance."

He's dressed in a white tank top and jeans. His gun is in its side holster, a metal-chilly albeit reassuring entity against his left side. His detective badge hangs from a brown leather belt. In his boots, his toes are curled inwards. If it isn't for the fact both Sinclair and Mac would plainly see it, his fingers would be digging into his thighs.

From anticipation.

"Please, I can _do_ this," he reasserts, glancing from Sinclair to Mac. "I'm the perfect guy for the job!"

The Commissioner's brown eyes brim with skepticism.

"He has history with Marty Pino," Mac says. He's hunched forward, elbows on the table, chin propped on one hand wrapped around a fist. "If there's any undercover cop who has a chance in hell of establishing a relationship quickly with him, it's Danny."

Sinclair's fingers are tapping on an open folder on Mac's desk.

"And just what _is_ your connection to the right hand man of Teodoro Alvarez, one of the most powerful drug lords in the country, Detective Messer?"

Although Danny doesn't like what Sinclair is implying, the Commissioner is justified in his inquiry. Hell, if they traded places and he knew facts pertaining to himself simply from some documents in an NYPD file, documents greatly hinting at a past involving gangs and reckless shootouts on the job, he'd be distrustful of a man like himself too.

"Pino and I knew each other when we were kids," he replies coolly. "Lived in the same neighborhood in Queens. We ran with the same crowd till we hit our late teenage years."

Sinclair's face is expressionless, but Danny knows the older African-American man in the refined, dark grey suit and striped beige tie is gauging him.

Tying him to the grill and lighting the match to commence the psychological barbecue.

"What crowd was this?" Sinclair asks.

Danny doesn't blink an eye.

"The Tanglewood Boys. It was a gang my brother hung out with back in the day."

"Your _brother_."

"Yeah. Louie Messer."

"Interesting. A homicide detective who has gang ties."

"_Had_, sir," Danny says. "I abandoned that part of my past a long time ago."

For a few seconds, the drumming of the Commissioner's fingers on Mac's desk is the sole sound echoing in the room.

Then Sinclair says, "Where is your brother now?"

Danny has to take a deep breath and consciously straighten out his fingers that are jabbing into his palms.

"He's dead. Sonny Sassone beat him to death three years ago. He caught my brother wearin' a wire gatherin' evidence for a homicide investigation."

"I'm sorry for your loss." Sympathy imbues Sinclair's features for a minute, then diminishes as swiftly. "Were you part of this investigation?"

"At first, yes. Mac assigned me to another case when the Tanglewood Boys connection emerged. I didn't know 'bout my brother's involvement until … until he was brought to the hospital."

"I see."

There is something unnerving about Sinclair not taking his eyes off him, not once.

"Sonny Sassone ... Leader of the Tanglewood Boys, correct?"

Danny nods.

"Isn't Sassone currently serving a life sentence in Sing Sing? For the very homicide which led to your brother's death during its investigation?"

After a moment's faltering, Danny nods again.

"Does that have any bearing on your decision to undertake this special undercover assignment, Detective Messer?"

Danny can sense Mac's sharp, hazel eyes upon him.

"No."

It's a long while before Sinclair speaks.

"The only reason you're even here, Detective Messer, is due to your sergeant's recommendation. So far, I have very little assurance that you won't end up taking advantage of this assignment and turn it into some quest for _vengeance_."

Danny is very surprised at himself for not feeling a drop of indignation at the Commissioner's allegation.

"I'd be lyin' if I said I don't want an eye for an eye for my brother's murder. But I know better than to sink down to Sassone's level. I kill him, and I'll be the same as him. And it won't do _shit _to bring my brother back."

He must have said the right thing; Sinclair's neutral expression cedes to a small smile, and it might be his imagination, but Sinclair seems impressed. _Finally_.

"If I get the location of those bodies from Pino and they're good enough evidence to bring down this Alvarez drug lord asshole, who am I to say no to such an opportunity?"

Sinclair's smile remains.

"So you're doing this out of goodwill?"

"I prefer to think of it as an expendable member of the NYPD like me being useful for once."

That brings forth a brief laugh from the Commissioner, who leans back in his seat and sends Mac a meaningful look.

"You may have a point about him after all, Taylor."

The zigzagging pain that wracks Danny's head takes him unawares. He grabs the sides of his head and whimpers. At least he _thinks_ he does; Mac and Sinclair and his sergeant's office have vanished and he's staring up at a cracked and peeling ceiling and the blanket covering him is cottony and so -

"Get the location of the bodies, Detective Messer, and your record will be a clean slate. You have my word on that."

Wait, he's back in Mac's office again. Sinclair's standing in front of the closed office door, one hand on its bronze handle. Studying him, awaiting his reaction.

"Thank you, sir."

As Sinclair begins to press down on the door's handle to open it, Danny stands up unhurriedly and tentatively says, "If ya don't mind me askin', Commissioner Sinclair … Is there any other reason you're involved in this assignment, apart from wantin' Alvarez locked away for life?"

Sinclair's eyes suddenly appear old and weary.

"The bodies we're searching for, Alvarez's murder victims …"

Danny nods silently.

"One of them belongs to my niece."

Pain. More pain pulsating through his head.

Where is the goddamn pain _coming_ from?

"Danny, _listen_ to me. This isn't a _game_."

The Commissioner's gone. It's just him and Mac in the office now, and Mac is gripping his shoulders and shaking him a bit. Mac's eyes are so wide. As if the enormity of Danny's decision is overloading him little by little and he can't rewind the clock and he can't save Danny from the terrible fate to which Danny's signed himself.

"You'll be on your _own_. In _Sing Sing_. And I can't do a thing if something happens to you in there. I can't pull you out unless you're near _dea_-" Mac abruptly quietens and releases his shoulders. The immense concern flooding Mac's usually stoic visage astonishes and humbles Danny. "I can't protect you."

"I'll be okay, Mac. I'll be fine." He does his best to give his sergeant, his _friend_, a heartening grin. "I'm a big boy. I can take care of myself."

"Now when haven't I heard _that _before?"

Mac is rolling his eyes but smiling faintly. Always a positive sign.

"I need to know that this is what you really want to do," Mac says a minute later. His expression is solemn once more. "You have _one_ chance to do this. Pino will only be in Sing Sing for a month before he's transferred and the trial begins, and if we don't find out the location of the bodies before that …"

"I know, Mac. I'll get it. I promise."

"I'm not worried about that. I'm worried about _you_."

Mac is fading. Mac's photographs of his late wife Claire, his desk, his trophies, medals and cabinets crammed with files are fading. Everything surrounding them is fading to white and no, _no_, Mac's _gone_ and -

"… Mac."

"Uhm. N-no, my name's Adam. Not Mac."

The ceiling. The ceiling is white.

"Are you awake?"

His bedroom ceiling isn't white. It doesn't have fissures and flaking paint like that either.

Where is he?

"Are you feeling any pain?"

He's resting on a bed, swaddled in a dark green blanket. He's in a sparsely furnished room. Iron bars barricade the room's one square window. Aside from his bed, there's a white bedside table to his left, and a chair to his right.

And an auburn-haired young man, the man calling himself Adam, is seated on it. Adam's smile is amiable.

"Hi. I'm Adam." In an almost timid fashion, Adam lugs his chair closer to the head of the bed. "You're Daniel Messer, r-right? Dr. Hammerback told me that."

"Danny." Whoa, he sounds like the Godfather ten times more croaky. "I'm … Danny."

"Oh. _Oh_. You prefer to be called Danny. I'm sorry," Adam hastily replies.

Danny, peering at him through swollen eyes, sees that the other man's apology is indeed sincere. Adam's head is bowed, as though prepared for punishment to be meted out for his offense.

"S'okay."

He's exhausted. His head is throbbing in tandem with the bone-deep ache in his chest. His arms and legs are faring no better; his right arm, in particular, is veering between not-there-at-all and fucking-feels-like-there-are-hot-pokers-in-it. Bandages bind his ribcage. He has his pants and underwear on, but nothing else.

This is _not_ his apartment in upper Manhattan, much less his bedroom.

So where the hell _is_ he?

"Do you - do you know where you are?" When he realizes Danny is too tired to speak, Adam says, "You're in the infirmary. Sheldon, he - he was really worried about you. He said you had a concussion and you needed medical care real quick."

Danny stares at Adam, perplexed. A concussion? How did he end up getting a _concussion?_

"You … you don't remember what happened, do you?"

"No," Danny rasps. The mere notion of shaking his head is already intensifying his headache.

"Sassone and his gang, they attacked you. At the yard."

He hears someone suck in a harsh breath. Everything's losing color all over again, and there's a strange flare of light and all of a sudden, the Technicolor past is arranged before him, zooming past his eyes as static images seized from the rolodex of his mind.

Sassone. The recreational yard. Pulverizing Sassone's pudgy nose. Sassone's cronies ambushing him. Beating the crap out of him. Agony. So much agony. Blood streaming from his nose. Taste of iron coating his tongue. Sassone, now an enraged, snarling dog. Another man, a faceless man. And his voice, resonant and … comforting. An earsplitting roar. Sunlight in his eyes. Arms around his chest. More agony. A hand stroking his hair. Darkness.

Then, arms around him a second time. Different arms. Warm, muscular arms. Lifting him up. Holding him against extensive shoulders and chest. A sturdy heartbeat against his ear. Scent of fresh spring. Scent of this man, carrying him. Scent of … home.

But this is not home.

"It's okay. It's okay now. Sassone can't hurt you here. Dr. Hammerback won't let that happen."

No, this is not home, this is …

"Sheldon! He's awake!"

Sing Sing.

He's in _Sing Sing Correctional Facility_.

"When he did wake up?"

"A few minutes ago. Oh. He prefers to be called Danny."

There are hands upon him. Strong hands that are gentle and compassionate.

"Please, lie down. You're not well enough to get up yet."

Overwhelmed by lightheadedness, Danny obediently lets those hands tuck him back into bed. He's too busy regulating his breathing and striving to not bend into a fetal position. _Fuck_, it sure feels like ten monster trucks ran him over together and then decided to do it another hundred times just for fun.

"I'll go get Hammerback."

That voice … it's the same one that had whispered into his ear as he was dragged away from Sassone and his cronies.

"Wait."

Danny opens eyes he didn't realize he'd closed. There's a second man in the room now, standing on the left side of his bed, gazing down at him. A couple of seconds tick by before Danny notices his left hand has grabbed this man's right wrist, this man with smooth, dark brown skin and cropped black hair and trimmed beard whom Adam calls Sheldon.

"Thank you for helpin' me," Danny whispers.

Sheldon's double-lidded eyes disclose nothing.

"Just make sure you're worth it."

Danny accepts the succinct but not callously said advice for what it is and sinks back onto the mattress. Someone is placing his left hand on his stomach. Drawing the blanket up to his collarbones. Is it Sheldon or Adam doing that? He doesn't know.

"Are you going to get Don too?"

Sleep. He needs to sleep.

"Yes. Wait here. I'll be back soon."

For an eon, or perhaps a couple of minutes, he drifts in and out of consciousness. Once in a while he senses fingers brushing his hair in a child-like, innocent manner. Sometimes he hears the distant clanging of metal doors. A muffled yell, somebody summoning another by name. Reverberating footsteps.

Someone is touching his uncovered shoulder.

His eyelids flicker, then lift.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Messer. I'm Dr. Hammerback."

Dr. Sid Hammerback appears precisely in real life as he does in the photograph Danny had seen in the file Mac has on the doctor. Pepper-grey hair. Steel-rimmed glasses upon a long, hooked nose. A face lined by experience and wisdom but brightened by inquisitive, heavy-lidded hazel eyes. Thin lips ostensibly set in a knowing smile.

Danny had memorized Hammerback's face and report weeks ahead of his mission and therefore feels unthreatened by Sing Sing's resident doctor. What the file hadn't prepared Danny for is Hammerback's paternal and consoling voice.

"How are you feeling? Are you experiencing any dizziness or nausea?"

Another source of mercy, in a hellhole where there should be none whatsoever.

"I feel as bad … as I look."

Hammerback chuckles, but empathy is palpable in his eyes.

"Oh dear, then I must tell you you're looking rather the worse for wear."

"No shit," Danny says, one end of his lips curving up. The right side of his face hurts too much for a full smile.

"Now, I'm going to shine this flashlight into your eyes, to check your pupils' reaction."

In normal circumstances, the direct, intense light would have been, at most, irritating. Right here and now, his injured head pounding as it is, the light is an invisible blade that carves into his brain and forces a cry from his mouth. He twists his head away from the flashlight, his eyes squinched.

"I'll give you Tylenol for your headache and muscle pain," Hammerback says. He's switched off the flashlight. "I'm afraid there isn't much else I can do for your bruised ribs."

Danny peels one eye open and mumbles, "I didn't break any a' them?"

"No, although I can't blame you for thinking that. Should you become embroiled in another quarrel, you _will_. So _no fighting_. Understood?"

One of Hammerback's bushy eyebrows is arched in a mock glower.

"Yes, sir."

Danny smiles again, this time inwardly. Heh. The profile Mac has on the doctor is dead on; a good man with an admirable resume, but not someone you wish to piss off regardless of how hospitable he may seem. His years of service in the Gulf War had included training in the usage of several firearms such as the M-16 rifle and the Beretta M9.

Hammerback is now writing on a patient chart clipped to a board.

"You'll be staying overnight for observation. I want to make sure there isn't any brain damage."

"I dunno, Doc ... might be a little too late there."

Decades disappear from Hammerback's mien when he grins.

"I think you're going to be alright, Mr. Messer." The doctor pats Danny on the shoulder. His smile has become melancholic. "Welcome to Sing Sing."

There's a high-pitched, creaking noise as the room's steel door opens. After sticking his black pen back into the breast pocket of his white coat, Hammerback pivots away from the bed to glance at whoever has entered.

"Ah, Flack. How nice to see you walk in here on your own accord for a change."

"Ha ha, Doc. You're funny as always."

"I try my best, as you do."

Danny blinks.

Flack?

Isn't he the man who …

"Don! Are you feeling better?"

"I'm good, Adam. Just a punch to the face, that's all. My gorgeous looks will survive."

Hammerback has taken a step back from his bed, and Danny has an unobstructed view of the door and the three men standing near it. Adam is beside Sheldon while they face another man, a very tall man possessing thick, dark hair and pale skin who is garbed in the grey uniform of a Sing Sing inmate. A contusion has darkened the man's left cheek.

Danny blinks once more, unable to look away from the man.

It's him. It's Flack. The guy who saved him from being butchered by Sassone.

But why?

"Don, _Don_, he's awake," Adam says to Flack, and Danny's breath hitches in his throat.

Flack has the largest blue eyes he has ever seen upon a man's visage. They're staring at him, open and intrepid and yet … Danny is unable to read them. Unable to figure out what Flack is thinking or feeling as the man stares so fiercely at him.

It unnerves him.

And enlivens him.

"Hey, Doc. I wanna talk to him alone."

Flack is still staring at him.

Danny is abruptly glad for the blanket covering his body.

"Flack -"

"C'mon, Doc. Look at me, I got my handsome face beaten up for him. Ya think I'm gonna _do_ somethin' to him now?"

"The last time you were here, you stayed for _days_ because you dragged the fight in here."

"Hey now, tell it like it is! I didn't continue the fight, that asswipe Sassone did! He wouldn't lay off Douvry even after breakin' the guy's nose." Flack's eyebrows shoot up. "_Aw_, wait a sec, I get it. You just want me to spend time with _you_ instead, don'tcha? I _know_ what you can do with them gloves, Doc. But as cute as ya are, I ain't interested in goin' to that creepy place."

Hammerback shakes his head. The doctor is smiling in amusement.

"Alright. You have ten minutes. He needs his rest."

Flack's wide smile is an astounding spectacle, a phenomenon that instantly enhances the man's attractive face and causes the rest of the world to evaporate into thin air. And for the second time, Danny is glad for the blanket covering his body. Bad enough already that he's shirtless.

"Thanks, Doc."

"_Ten_ _minutes_," Hammerback says, wagging one forefinger at Flack.

"Yeah, yeah, I gotcha the first time," Flack replies.

Danny is as conscious as ever of Flack's steadfast stare as Hammerback turns back to him and says, "I'll be right outside, so if you need anything, just call for me."

"Okay."

Adam follows Hammerback out of the room, but gazing through the space between Flack and Sheldon, Danny sees that Adam is lingering near the doorway, peeping in every so often. Adam is waiting for Sheldon, who isn't budging an inch from his position in front of Flack.

"Don, we need to talk."

"I know. I'll talk with ya later, 'kay? Just need a few words with the fish."

"It _is_ about the fish."

Flack doesn't skip a beat.

"Like I said, I'll talk with ya later." Flack holds up a fist between them. "Hey. Thanks for lookin' out for me."

A second passes, two, three, and then, Sheldon is bumping fists with Flack.

"Brothers stick together," Sheldon says.

Now both their fists are held up high, their wrists crossed and snug against each other.

"Yeah," Flack replies, and it's enough of an answer to Sheldon who walks away without another word and shuts the door behind him.

The noise of it is as loud as thunder to Danny's ears.

Flack is striding towards the bed, steadily, leisurely, perhaps even arrogantly. His footsteps are measured. He seems to grow taller and taller as he verges on the bed. And as the distance between them shrinks, Danny must admit that Flack _isn't_ being exceedingly conceited about his physical appearance.

Up close, Flack's facial features are all the more discernible; a strong chin, a firm jaw line, dark pink lips, a sharp, patrician nose, thick and dark eyebrows, and most of all … those big blue eyes, staring relentlessly at him.

The eyes of a hunter.

Danny almost jumps when Flack yanks back the chair next to his bed and sits heavily on it. His fingers burrow into the grey cloth of his pants beneath the blanket.

Fuck, it's that scent again. The scent he remembers from when he was carried from the yard to the infirmary.

_Flack's_ scent.

For a few tense minutes, silence reigns. Danny is unsure whether he is the only one in the room who senses the tension. Flack, lounging on the chair, his legs spread and his hands loose on his thighs, appears as unruffled as an Arctic fox.

He, in contrast, is about five seconds away from imploding. Figuratively speaking.

He makes the first move.

"Thank you."

His mellifluous statement surprises Flack.

"For what?" Flack murmurs, and Danny inhales long and hard, suddenly finding himself starved for air.

Flack's voice is lower. Deeper.

"Savin' my ass out there."

Flack glances away for a moment. Then, he chuckles, but there is an edge to it.

"You really are fresh meat," Flack says, voice still low and composed.

Danny's eyes narrow.

"Ya got ulterior motives for helpin' me out?"

Flack is quiet for some time. His lips aren't moving, but his eyes are, roaming across Danny's face, down his neck and all over his exposed shoulders.

A blanket is enfolding him, and still, Danny shivers.

"No," Flack eventually says. "I'm just sayin', if it was anybody else but me, you'd be gettin' fucked on all fours right now."

Heat infuses Danny's cheeks. Endeavor as he might, he can't help breaking eye contact to stare at the ceiling. _Fucked on all fours? _Damn, this Flack guy doesn't pull any punches at all.

He hopes to whatever deity is listening that his warm face isn't beet red.

When he shifts his gaze back onto Flack, it's his turn to be flabbergasted. Flack seems to be flushed as well, the ruddiness even more obvious on his pale skin. So first the guy springs it on him that the convicts of Sing Sing won't mind turning him into their bitch and then … he's _blushing_ about it?

What is this Flack _up_ to?

"Ya got history with Sassone?"

The sudden change of subject prompts Danny's brows to furrow. Looks like Flack isn't the kinda guy to needle another guy. Then again, Flack _did_ save his life even though he wasn't obligated to do so. Doesn't make sense for the guy to start antagonizing him now, particularly if he _desires_ something from him.

Or desires _him_.

"Yeah. I got history with him."

Flack's eyes instantaneously become shuttered.

"Oh yeah? What kinda history?"

Danny ponders carefully on his response. What does he tell this man, this convict whom he doesn't know and never read about in any of Mac's files on the prisoners of Sing Sing? A half-truth? The whole truth? The truth he's never confessed even to Mac?

"He killed my brother."

It astonishes him how _easy_ it was to say that to Flack.

Flack's stare assumes a different intensity.

"For real?"

"Yes. My only brother. Louie."

"Fuckin' hell. I'm sorry."

Danny swallows visibly. The truth … he can tell Flack the truth, _his_ truth about his brother's murder. The guy's a _convict_, the last person who would judge him for what he's going to say.

"If I had half a chance, I'd tear him from limb to limb. Cut up his hands that bashed my brother's head in. Make him eat his own fingers. And I'd do it slowly, 'cause I want him to feel every ounce a' pain he caused my brother."

Shit, why is everything so hazy?

"And I'd do it all over again, if it brought Louie back."

"_If_ it brought your brother back."

Danny gazes hard at Flack. Flack is returning the stare, his head angled in hushed contemplation.

Then Flack says, "Ya don't have what it takes to kill another man."

The statement shakes Danny to the core. What the, how is the guy so _certain_ of that?

Mac had been so meticulous in forging the numerous documents painting him to be a dirty cop snitching on other cops who then lost his badge and freedom after getting caught red-handed by the IAB. He himself had chosen the role of traitorous rat to play; Pino used to be an ME for the NYPD before hopping onto Alvarez' payroll and betraying the department. Pino, of all people, would relate to an ex-NYPD snitch.

In spite of his physical aches, Danny's entire body tenses on the bed.

Is his cover blown already? So soon?

"How the fuck would _you_ know that?" he growls, baring his teeth. For once, he's thankful for his prominent canines.

Flack isn't alarmed in the least.

"You're talkin' to someone who _has_."

Flack displays four fingers, thumb tucked into the palm.

"That why you're here?"

For some mysterious reason, Flack doesn't answer his query. Instead, Flack inclines forward, his face now unexpectedly that much nearer to his. If it isn't for his pillow and his aching ribs, Danny would have recoiled. Holy shit, _this_ close, those large blue eyes seem to stare straight into the buried recesses of his soul.

"Ya don't have what it takes to _harm _a man, much less kill one. Ya don't have it in you to take revenge on Sassone like that." Flack slants his head in the opposite direction. "The proof's you stuck in bed right here, unable to even lift a _finger_."

"He sicced three a' his underlings on me. Whaddaya expect?"

Flack's tiny smile is as enigmatic as his reluctance to divulge information about himself.

"Ya don't have it in you. I know."

_Keep it cool, Messer, maintain cover_, Danny thinks, _don't let him get to you_.

"Since ya know so much 'bout me, wise guy, you tell me then … what am I s'pposed to do?"

"Be mine."

Flack's visage is impassive even after Danny gasps aloud.

"Join my crew. It's him or me," Flack adds as if Danny hadn't made a sound. "Take your pick."

All at once, Danny becomes acutely aware of the dryness of his lips. He slides his tongue along his lower lip … and trembles when he perceives Flack's eyes following the deliberate motion of his tongue.

Fuck. _Fuck_, he knows that Flack knows the choice he'll make.

So what does he say?

What does he say to the man who's going to be his … _master?_

"What's the price?"

Wow, he didn't think his voice would be as stable as that.

Flack has that shrewd look on his face again, the sort a man gets when he's figured out the ball's in his side of the court and he's about to win the grand slam.

"There is no price. Just stick with me."

"That's it?" Danny snorts. "Yeah. Like I was born yesterday or somethin'."

Flack's eyes are just like a jaguar's. Razor-sharp. Enrapturing. Seeing only the prey, its divine feast that is but a mere snare away.

And Flack captures him with one straightforward sentence.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you _want_ things 'tween us to be somethin' _more_."

Danny wants to feel outraged. He wants to be pissed off at this overconfident asshole who thinks he knows everything about him. He wants to hurl the blanket away and throw himself at Flack and hold the bastard down and then let _him_ hold -

No. Oh fuck, _no_. He can't let Flack get to him.

_No_. He _can't_.

Flack has risen to his feet, gazing down at him, a mesmerizing leviathan from the celestial heavens who has claimed his mortal treasure on earth and marked his name upon it.

Danny desperately wants to look away too. But he can't.

"Might as well get used to me," Flack says softly. "I'm your cellmate."

Danny is still struggling to make his vocal chords work as Flack ambles to the door. He should be glad Flack is leaving him alone as last, he should be _glad_ to have the room to _think_ -

"See ya tomorrow, Danny."

Flack is smiling. That smug bastard is _smiling_ at him -

The door shuts with nothing more than a click.

And in bed as he always was, his blanket crumpled around his waist, Danny stares up at the cracked, flaking ceiling and tries not to brood over why his dick is stiff as rock.

**Oooo …... oooO **

jail house punk - made a homosexual in prison

yard - prison recreational yard

fish - a new prisoner

mick - derogatory term for Irish people

dime dropper - snitch

ace - main man/best friend/good friend

rat - one who tells on others

cell gangster - tough guy when locked in, a chicken when locked out

boss - an officer, some say it is 'sorry son of a bitch' spelled backwards

veterano - veteran prisoner, someone who has been in prison for a long time

red eye - a hard stare


End file.
